"Paul Levinson - Loose Ends (2)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Levinson Paul)

some tiny understanding of what Jeff was saying. The girl in
the back with the soft brown eyes seemed to be in touch with
him. Anyway, Jeff liked the way she looked at him.
"Ok, that's about it for today. Read the pertinent
sections of _Gutenberg Galaxy_, and I'll see whether I can get
you some advance copies of _Understanding Media_." Jeff grabbed
his corduroy coat and strode out the door, smiling at the girl
with the soft brown eyes.
He hurried to the subway at l37th Street. He looked at his
watch -- the flector model, for Jeff no longer cared about
keeping such minor aspects of his cover. In fact, he hoped
future artifacts like this might attract someone's benevolent
attention, maybe someone else from the future, who could help
him. He'd have gladly kept spending his 1980s money too for the
same reason, had he not been afraid that sooner or later some
good samaritan would have him arrested for counterfeiting.
It was 11:56 -- more than enough time.
But the subway took longer than expected, and it was 12:35
when Jeff ran down the long flights of stairs at the Pelham
Parkway station in the Bronx. Saperman's was only a few minutes
away by foot, so Jeff wasn't too worried. Still, he half-walked,
half-ran.
He was sweating when he reached the bakery. He realized
this was more from anxiety than exertion. His
great-great-grandmother had died in 1992, at the age of 97. His
grandfather, whom Jeff had spent some of the most satisfying
times of his childhood with, had been just 6 when Sarah Harris
had died, but grandpa carried memories of her warmth and voice
and summers they had spent together in their cottage on Cape Cod
Bay, and Jeff felt he knew Sarah through this.
But he stopped, suddenly not sure he could do this. What
would he say to this woman? How would she react? A smell of
apple strudel permeated his thoughts -- grandpa's strudel, an
old family recipe grandpa had loved to bake -- and this gave him
courage. He walked in.
"Hello," he said in the direction of the three matronly
women who stood behind the counter and looked up at him as a
clanking bell on the inside of the door announced his presence.
Not a single one of them looked anything like his
great-great-grandmother. "Can I help you?" one of them said in
a soothing Jewish accent that he'd heard only in the movies.
"Uhm, yes ..." he began, not quite sure what to say. "Does
a Mrs. Sarah Harris work here?"
Just then he heard a rustle from the back. His
great-great-grandmother walked out from behind a curtain,
carrying some sort of cake in an open box.
"Sarah, a _boichik_ to see you," one of the women said with
a laugh.
Jeff felt like shouting with joy. He suppressed this,
along with the urge to jump over the counter and hug her. She